


tripe

by fishysama



Series: goretober 2020!!! [13]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: :), Blood, Blood and Gore, Cannibalism, Cooking, Dinner, Disembowelment, Dissection, Dreamlike, Drug Use, Family Dinners, Gore, Goretober, Goretober 2020, Graphic Description, Guro, Hannibal Lecter is a Cannibal, Hannibal Lecter is the Chesapeake Ripper, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, Mutual Pining, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Pining, Sexual Tension, Someone Help Will Graham, Stabbing, Stitches, Surgeon Hannibal Lecter, Surgery, Um., Unresolved Sexual Tension, Will Graham Knows, Will Graham is a Cannibal, erotic? erotic????????, fandom specific tags are so fucking funny to me, hehe, imagine being a part of a popular fandom, they're at it again...., this is fucking gross ngl
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-13
Updated: 2020-10-13
Packaged: 2021-03-09 02:01:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,799
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27096991
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fishysama/pseuds/fishysama
Summary: goretober day 13: gutshannibal makes will dinner :) haha cannibal pun
Relationships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Series: goretober 2020!!! [13]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1950796
Comments: 7
Kudos: 10





	tripe

“Are you hungry, Will?” is a question Will never thought he would hear in a context like this—terribly contorted on a dining room chair, organs in a warm pool, writhing in his lap, trying to find words to express this sort of pain. Hannibal wiping the blood off his pocket knife. He never thought that this context would occur either, but here he is, trying to speculate if Hannibal would actually make the final move to kill him.

Will’s lips curl inwards as he shakes, hiding his fearful face in his shoulder. He can’t move, run away. He says, “Not necessarily.” He should have cursed him out, pleaded for his life, something. “Not necessarily.”

“You know,” Hannibal turns for the kitchen, shoe heels clicking with each slow step. “I love to treat you to a meal when you come over. It’s something I enjoy doing for all my guests, but you especially. You’re not used to gourmet, correct?” He doesn’t get an answer. “Thus, you appreciate it significantly more.” He takes a wooden box from a shelf in the kitchen, removing the lid to reveal an untouched, high-carbon chef’s knife, a treasure he found hidden in a family-run cutlery store in  _ Toscana  _ years before. He saved them for a special occasion. The occasion has presented itself.

“I’m thinking of seared tripe. Have you had gut before?”

Will squirms as Hannibal approaches from the kitchen, observing the knife and knowing where the protein’s going to come from, the name of Hannibal’s “ethical butcher.”

“I haven’t,” he whines slightly with this, trying to scooch the chair away. His feet are made of sandbags.  _ Ah. There was something in the wine, wasn’t there? _ “And I don’t intend on trying it.”

Hannibal huffs through his nose, a humored exhale. He places the blade on the dining table, just out of Will’s reach, and passes right by him. “Many people see tripe as unappetizing, even inedible. However, many cultures’ cuisines incorporate eating entrails. Other meats deemed undesirable—the brain, testicles, and tongue—are often celebrated. It’s a way of honoring the animal.” He opens a cabinet behind Will, pulling out a metal box with a red cross. A first aid kit for the surgically minded. He dons two blue powdered gloves, latex smacking his hands.

A chill goes down Will’s spine.  _ Garrett Jacob Hobbs stuffed his pillows with girls' hair.  _ Still, he tries to keep his calm. “I don’t think they eat  _ human _ gut, Doctor Lecter.”

Hannibal sets the chef’s knife on the dining room table beside his other “surgical equipment.” “Something that we often forget is that humans are animals. We think far too highly of ourselves.”

“You see me as a pig.” There is no other explanation. Will had that theory from the beginning about Hannibal, the man he knew as the Chesapeake Ripper long before he had met him. His victims were pigs. Will, drugged and disemboweled in his dining room, is clearly a victim. Yet, Hannibal responds:

“I don’t,” he sits opposite of Will, picking up the knife, “If I did, I would have slaughtered you by now.”

“Is that not what you’re doing—?” Will stops to wince as Hannibal touches his intestines, slowly lifting a portion of the tube onto the uncovered table.

“I’m simply taking a piece of you, Will,” he spreads the intestine across the board in a straight line, “It’s a good thing for both of us. A reminder for you, a gift for me. A delicious meal for the both of us.” With that, he makes his first cut, slicing the intestine as one would do a slab of non-living, non-human, non-intestine meat. “You have an incredibly healthy gut, Will.”

Will would mutter “good to hear” if he wasn’t overtaken with pain, practically begging Hannibal for a more potent sedative than whatever roofie he put in his drink. From the corner of his eye, he watches the tube slice in two, yellow bile oozing from both ends.

Hannibal sets the other half aside, letting it pulse on the table. “I prepared some garlic-chili paste and stir-fried vegetables beforehand to pair with this. I didn’t want you to have to wait too long for your meal.” He slices again, dragging the serrated edge across the length. About a foot of intestine: plenty for both of them with leftovers. “I hope you’re not too sensitive to spice.”

_ Premeditated. _ He wants to spit at or cling to Hannibal as he offers Will the upper portion of his intestine. Eyes telling him to hold. He acquiesces, unsettled by the act of touching his own innards. It was different from fish. More personal, surely.

“Although it’s preferable to have the whole length, humans can survive after removing significant portions of their small intestine. The large intestine, in fact, can be removed altogether,” he opens the at-home surgery box. Will doesn’t want to think about what he’s used it for prior to this. Well, he knows without speculating. He’s seen the crime scenes. He’s been inside of them. “In some cases,” Hannibal readies a needle with a long blue thread, “people can survive with less than a tenth of their original small intestine. I’ve only taken less than a foot of yours, though, so don’t fret. You’ll be fine, save potential post-procedural complications. I’ll prescribe some antibiotics to avoid infection. Are you allergic to penicillin?”

Will doesn’t feel fine. He shakes his head.

“Good.” Hannibal takes a small pill bottle out of the kit—talk about prepared—and shakes out one of the tablets. He slips it between Will’s trembling lips; bile and blood mar his mouth. “With our unconventional procedure, it’s best to lower the risk of infection starting now, and with large doses.”  _ Our.  _ He reaches his palm out to Will, requesting the other half of the intestine back. 

He gives Hannibal back a piece of him. Swallows. Watches Hannibal sew him back together, the trained motion of his hand creating perfect, even stitches. He finds it funny seeing it in a non-metaphorical way for once. Finally, Hannibal physically tears him apart and puts him back together again.

Upon tying off the last suture, Hannibal looks at Will—shaking, writhing, crying in pain—and smiles. “That wasn’t too bad. You certainly took it well.” He brings the newly destroyed and repaired intestine back to Will’s lap. “I’m proud of you.”

Again, that thought. Will wants to be held, desperately. No more spitting.

Hannibal grants his wish. Careful to prevent organs dropping to the floor, he scoops Will up, one arm beneath his knees, the other holding his head tightly to Hannibal’s chest. Holding.

Like a stray dog, Will grasps onto his shirt sleeve. He shivers.

Hannibal places Will down on the metal counter, at last unbuttoning his shirt and moving it past his shoulders. Half-naked and bloodied, chest heaving. Faint whines escaping Will’s lips. They avoid each other’s eyes. Hannibal leaves, temporarily, to retrieve the surgery kit. Will cannot breathe.

Upon returning, Hannibal slides any displaced organs back into Will’s abdominal cavity, checking for abnormalities. He prepares the needle once again, a black string entering the eye. “I know this is uncomfortable for you, but I’d like to make these stitches as clean as possible. It would be a shame if your stomach showed such a treacherous scar.”

Will looks away as the first stitch is created. Hannibal pulls the skin taught and his ears go red.

When Hannibal says, “All done,” Will doesn’t even remember the rest of the stitches. Looking down, there they are: his viscera delicately tucked beneath a tight line of sutures, his jagged, torn belly whole again. He takes a length of white gauze out of the kit, laying it gently along Will's stitches. He gingerly presses medical tape along each edge, daring the skin to bite back. Hannibal buttons Will’s shirt back up, bloodied and smelling of bile. Another smile. “There we go. Do you feel alright?”

“No.”

“It will pass, Will.” He walks to the other room, bringing in Will’s removed intestine. “You’ll feel better once you get something to eat.”

“I’m doubtful.” Will sits up cautiously, pain throbbing in his stomach from simply bending. He leans onto the cupboard, trying to catch his breath. Trying to make sense of things.

“Would you like to watch me prepare it?” Hannibal rinses the bile off the knife.

“No.”

He does it anyway, cutting the tube longitudinally. Now that the intestine was fully separated, it reminds Will more of an uncooked squid than something that was inside him less than an hour before. Hannibal cleans the length with the bleach water—“It’s not safe to eat intestinal bacteria, surprisingly. Logically, one would think the opposite.”—and scrapes the innards with his blade horizontally, removing impurities.

Disturbed and enamored, Will watches on. Hazy. At times, he can only perceive the motion of Hannibal’s arms, thinly chopping Will’s body into pieces.

When the smell comes, his brain tells his stomach to nauseate, but it growls out of spite. Sizzling meat, waves of savory-scented air. Will hasn’t eaten in twelve hours, that’s the reason. He would even salivate at dog shit. He convinces himself of this.

Finally, after Hannibal spends more time plating the meal than cooking it, he takes Will back to the dining room, letting Will lean on him as he balances a single platter in his other hands. They sit beside each other.

Will looks away from the plate. Ignores his begging stomach.

Hannibal prepares a fork, attempting to keep his expression placid. Will can see right through it, though. He’s giddy. He doesn’t say, “Open your mouth.” He says, “Say ‘ah.’”

Will presses his lips together tightly, swallowing whatever bile threatens his trachea. He doesn’t open his mouth to say “no” because he knows Hannibal will take advantage of it, slipping the fork in at whatever opportunity. He’ll probably like it better if Will doesn’t expect it.

“Will,” Hannibal says, suddenly stern, “I know you’re hungry.”

He still doesn’t budge, turning his head away like a child refusing a spoonful of peas.

“Will.” Hannibal grabs Will’s face, teasing his thumb and middle finger between his teeth, effectively prying his mouth open. He brings the fork to Will’s lips and slips the meat in. Satisfied, he lets go.

Will lets the meat sit beneath his tongue. He can’t bring himself to swallow.

“Chew. I promise it’s not that bad.” As if trying to prove a point, he forks a piece of entrails, swirls it in the sauce, and pops it in his mouth with a smile. “Just as delicious as I expected from you.” He then raises a handkerchief to dab the sauce from the corner of Will’s lips, like a lover would. 

Will looks underneath Hannibal’s eyes. Grinds his teeth.

It’s delicious.

**Author's Note:**

> [tumblr](https://juroguro.tumblr.com/)


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